


Language of Love: Quickisilver x Reader

by GiannaQueenofBelgium



Series: One Shots [6]
Category: Evan Peters - Fandom, Marvel, Quicksilver - Fandom, xmen - Fandom
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff, French, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiannaQueenofBelgium/pseuds/GiannaQueenofBelgium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader has a sprouting interest in the French language, this leads to some interesting quality time with everyone's favorite speedster.<br/>DOFP Quicksilver/Reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	Language of Love: Quickisilver x Reader

**French**

**(Please excuse my surely inaccurate French, I am still learning and thought this would be good practice!)**

A record player in the corner of the room spun endlessly, only humming the sound of static from the long finished vinyl. You chewed mindlessly on the end of your pen, marring the soft plastic with dozens of small teeth marks. A bad habit, one that was hard to kick, one that you had thought to have kicked _months_ ago. Yet another pen fell victim to your murderous canines.

“You said you stopped that,” came a voice from the steps. You stopped midsentence, putting a finger in the center of the paragraph where you’d left off to mark your spot. You perk up, smiling coyly while tapping the pen against your cheek. Peter grins at you from the stairs, he has his hands deep in the front pockets of his worn jeans and he leans against the wall boxing in the steps.

“Relapse can strike during times of stress,” You put the pen inside of your book and set it down on the ground before throwing yourself up onto his couch.

“Do I need to call for an intervention?”

“Are you accusing me of having an addiction, Peter?” You asked with a raised eyebrow as he plods down three steps, standing on the last one with his toes popping over the edge. He bits his lip while balanced on the brink, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Maybe…”

“I feel threatened,” You teased. “Whatever have I done to receive such treatment?”

“Well, you seem to have broken into my house-“

“The door was unlocked; you can hardly blame me for your forgetfulness.”

“And you’ve eaten my food-“Your eyes lowered to the two empty Twinkie wrappers on his coffee table.

“True,” You began “But claiming goods you stole as your own is problematic to say the least.”

“But you stole from me, stealing something that was already stolen doesn’t make it alright.”

“Eh.” You said with a shrug of your shoulders, tiring of arguing with him. Your attention turned back to the book sitting on the floor; you grab it, lean back into the overstuffed back of the couch and continue the paragraph.

“What about you feeling threatened again?” A sharp gust of wind throws your hair back and you peer over the top of the book, Peter just inches away, his arms positioned either side of you.

“Oh shoo,” You pulled a leg up and put it against his chest, he could easily dart away before you’d ever have the chance to touch him but instead allows you to push him back. “Go start up the record. I bought a new one this morning.”

His heading over to his record player, putting the needle back to the start and rejoining you on the couch happed so fast you register the movement only as a silver blur. He sat next to you, instead of overtop, and put his arm behind your back- pulling you just a little closer. He kindly ignored the burying of your blush within the pages of the book and instead skims the words.

“Whatcha reading? Some steamy romance novel?”

“Shush!” You complained and tap his chest with the book. Being flustered by his nearness quickly turned to aggravation; Peter has a natural talent for being annoying. Something you learned moments after being introduced to the speedster. The record ceased spinning static nothingness and the first notes of your new album began to play. Peter turns his head towards the sound and frowns.

“Never heard this before.”

“Wouldn’t expect you too, it’s foreign.”

“Are you calling me uncultured?”

“No, I’m calling you unadventurous.” He snorts and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, brushing the empty Twinkie packaging onto the floor.

“So what it is it?”

“This collection of French love songs,” You explained and flip to the next page of your book. It is probable you’re missing vital explanations on past, present, and future variants of the verbs you’re reviewing by reading so fast- but Peter is distracting beyond belief. Not only because of his constant chatter, but well- he smells nice and isn’t too horrid to look at, and- and…

“Really? French, huh. Didn’t think you’d be into that stuff.”

“Why do ya say it like that?” You twisted out from under his arm to frown at the boy.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s weird or cliché or something.” He rolled his eyes. “What?!” You slap him with the book again.

“Nothing, nothing miss sensitive,” He chuckled, biting his blasted lip and then lets it slowly slip out from between his teeth again like that will make everything better. Which in a way, it does, but he isn’t fully off the hook. “Ok, so if you’re so interested in French music- have you learned to speak any so far?”

“Oui!” He raised an eyebrow.

“Go on…” Your eyes cast down to your little French dictionary and flip nearer to the front.

“One sec- Bonjour! Je m’appelle Y/N, et toi?” He stares at you, impressed.

“What did you say?”

“I said hi, told you my name and asked for yours.”

“Oh, hey, I’m Peter- hope you know that by now.”

“Dolt,” You mutter and move forward a couple of pages. “Voici mon ami, il s’appelle Snuggles.” You gestured towards Peter’s stuffed rabbit, Snuggles, sat in the corner of the room on a shelf next to a bowling pin.

“I just said that Snuggles is my friend and introduced him to you.”

“What’s up Snuggles my man?” Peter waved at the rough looking bunny. You grin at him and set the book on the table. Peter reaches forward and snatches it up, flipping through it slowly at first and then just zipping through the pages.

“Huh, weird language, I would have gone with Spanish. I mean it seems more practical, I know a lot of people at school who speak it.”

“Tue moi,” You mutter and he cocks an eyebrow. “Means kill me.”

“Now why would I ever do a thing like that?” He leans towards you, caging you in- he has become fond of it seemingly. He keeps one arm over the couches back and the other on the edge, with you stuck in-between.

“Okay, hit me with some more, Frenchie girl.”

“Um, J’aime pommes et lait. Les chiens sont jolie. Le lait est rose- no wait milk isn’t pink, um- hold on one minute,” You fumbled and attempted to pass by his immoveable arm for your book.

“No, keep going, it doesn’t have to be perfect! You could say potato nine times and I’d be amazed.” He pulls you back, intent on hearing you speak more.

“Fine fine.” Flustered, you must wrack the depths of your brain for something else to say. An awful idea comes to mind. You’d never be able to say it out loud in your mother tongue, it feels too personal, it makes you too vulnerable to admit it. But in French… Now that is a different story. It would be easy to covertly tell Peter you adore him in French, no strings attached, he would never figure it out- and you’d feel the huge weight of your adoration off your chest.

“Je t’aime mon chéri…” You looked up into his eyes, wary of what might be waiting there. He doesn’t look away; he focuses on your eyes so intently- as if he might derive the meaning of your words by digging them from your irises. He’s probably thinking you’re talking about the weather outside, or how you like dogs- he can’t possibly figure out the only way you could ever say you like him is in a language he doesn’t understand.

“Huh, say it again.” You gulp, something is fishy here. He beams at you, that wide grin that makes you want to smack him and kiss him all at once.

“Je t’aime mon chéri.”

“They call French the language of love, you know.” You turn bright red.

“Look Peter I just am sputtering French-“Backtracking is definitely going to give this horrible little plan away but it is all you can help to do.

“Je t’aime aussie.” You pause and draw your eyebrows together, scanning his face and running the phrase through your minimal databank.

“W-what?”

“Je… t’aime… aussie.” He draws each word out long and smooth and beautiful, letting each consonant and vowel roll off his tongue. Still, you don’t react, he can’t possibly mean it. He is probably just messing around. But how does he know what to say?

“What?”

“I said I love you too you big idiot.” Somehow, surprising as it is, your eyes grow larger.

“N-no Peter I mean I just know how to say that,” Abort abort, yet he draws ever closer and still you don’t pull back. A second longer and there will be no going back.

His lips are on yours. Soft and smooth and knowing just what to do. Your eyes flutter shut, letting go of all the anxiety and worries of unrequited love that had plagued you for months now. The record spins on, telling of love and lust in the language famous for infatuation. This stereotype is only further cemented in your mind as Peter pulls you close, pressing closer and closer as the music draws around the two of you like wisps of euphoria.

“W-wait,” You pull back and take a deep breath, filling your lung with cool air in the hope to clear your muddled mind. But Peter doesn’t take a break; he wraps his arms around you, stringing kisses down your jawbone and just under your ear. Eyes wide, you giggle, and tangle your fingers in his hair.

“H-how did you know what I was saying?”

“I’m a faster learner,” He breaks the kisses to whisper. “And reader-“He points to the book on the table and you remember how fast he flipped through it; not just fiddly skimming, but just how fast he is able to read at a comprehendible rate.

“Tue-moi!” You whisper again and close your eyes tightly, embarrassed and exhilarated all at once.

“Correction, I believe you meant to say embrasses-moi. I have no want to kill you, but kiss you- that is an entirely different story.” He locks his hands around your hips, pulls you into his lap, and returns his lips to yours in one fluid motion. You cannot help but laugh. He stops his kiss attack just long enough to peer up at you with happy brown eyes.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any inaccurate French, I think it is obvious it is not my first language.  
> Also please do not comment about how "His name is PIETRO AHRRTR!" Because I'm using DOFP's Quicksilver who is known as "Peter" So thanks for keeping those complaints to yourself.   
> This is also featured on my deviantart.


End file.
